The Deductions of Christmas
by Tronnie
Summary: John wants to celebrate Christmas with Sherlock and get him presents for the holiday, but Sherlock won't stop deducing what they are! He's ruining the surprise!  fluffy, S/J slash


**I know it's a little late for Christmas, but let's prolong the merriment with a little Sherlock/John fluff, shall we?**

**o0o0o0o**

It's two weeks before Christmas, and 221b Baker Street, along with every other home, is decorated with lights and garland and general good cheer. Well, as far as the good cheer part, in 221b, John supplies that, because Sherlock surely doesn't. If John didn't know better, he'd say Sherlock didn't even realize it was the holiday season. But this was Sherlock, and of course, he knew everything.

But John had always loved the holidays. It's a time where you put aside everything and were happy, once a year, despite what haunts you all the rest of the time. And he wasn't about to let a little thing like Sherlock ruin the Christmas happiness. He loved the traditions, even (and of course, including) the horridly comical Christmas jumpers. So, since he was staying in London this Christmas instead of going to see his family, he'd decided to celebrate with Sherlock—though "celebrate" might be a little over stated. And there would be presents. Of course there would be presents. But, persuade him as he might, Sherlock refused to get into the spirit of it, and gave John a sniff and an eye roll when he brought up the idea.

"Really, John. There's no one to impress. Why bother?"

"No, Sherlock—no. I'm going to bother. Even if you don't. It's Christmas."

"Hm."

"And if you're not going to tell me what you want, I'll just find something."

John had a time of it, that's for sure. But it was enjoyable being out in the breezy, cold streets, doing some holiday shopping, and watching all the people, bundled against the cold—even if he had to do it alone. He pulled his thin coat tighter. He wasn't alone in spirit, though. Mrs. Hudson, Molly, even Lestrade had answered his call for ideas as to what to give Sherlock. And he was now happily heading back to Baker Street with a shopping bag of victory in his hand.

Sherlock was exactly where John had left him: lying limply on the couch in an obviously depression. Except now the violin had made its way into his hand.

"Bored."

"Don't shoot anything, please. You'll ruin the decorations."

Sherlock grunted irritably and huffed in what John thought sounded a lot like the beginning of a five-year-old's temper tantrum. He sighed.

"Even criminals take a break for Christmas."

Sherlock just glared at him. "At least you had the foresight to get some new reading material; it might relive some of the boredom temporarily." He held out his hand expectantly in John's direction.

John gaped at him. "Sherlock—how—" he paused and closed his eyes. Of course, _Sherlock. _"They were for _Christmas_!"

"…And?"

"A surprise!"

He closed his eyes. "A surprise shouldn't be so obvious, John."

"Obvious. Yes. Of course. How, exactly, now?"

Sherlock heaved a very put-upon sigh. "Judging by the amount of time spent shopping (you were walking because you didn't take cash for a cab) and the fact that you wouldn't spend any extra time because you didn't take a heavy enough coat, I could limit and deduce the area you would have covered and therefore the shops you would have visited. The bag you took was only big enough to fit something of book size, and, of course, there was the rather obvious once over you gave my bookshelf before leaving. So, if you please—" he wiggled his fingers on his still extended, expectant hand.

John just stared, trying to follow, before huffing angrily and heading back out to return the books.

Today was a new day, and John was once again determined to find a gift for his stubborn, irritating, and infuriatingly addictive friend and flatmate. This time, he made sure to grab cash for a cab, even though he didn't plan on taking one, and a warm coat, though he knew he wouldn't be needing one, and made sure to head out when Sherlock was out—just in case.

Sherlock was back when he returned, but he was busily typing on John's laptop and was distracted enough that John could slip to his room with the gift unnoticed. Happy with his success, John decided to wrap it quickly, before Sherlock could find it or something. He came back downstairs to get some wrapping paper, and was making his way back up the stairs when:

"You'll need more paper than that, don't you think?"

John ground his teeth and didn't even turn before he stomped back to his room.

The next try was also a failure when Sherlock guessed what the gift was five seconds after he noticed it, wrapped, under the tree.

The following time, John tried to find something so unusual that, even wrapped, Sherlock would never be able to guess. (A Venus fly trap plant; it reminded him of Sherlock, sometimes. And they could feed it all the left over experiments Sherlock left lying around, like the bag of thumbs in the fridge.) But yet again, Sherlock guessed it (something about the type of soil on his shoes from the greenhouse shop.)

The one after that Sherlock also found out, and the only explanation he gave was "Mycroft." John was getting more and more disheartened with each passing day, but at the same time, there was a competitive streak beginning to unfurl in him about this. Sherlock seemed to pick up on his frustration, though, and said casually, one day:

"If it distresses you, I can just pretend not to know. Though, I must admit, this has been somewhat entertaining."

John rounded on him and shouted before he controlled himself with some effort. "No! I'll get it. I'll get one that you can't guess. If it's the last thing I do!"

"Watch your blood pressure, John."

After a few days with no further shopping attempts from John, Sherlock asked about it. John just said, smugly:

"I've already got your gift. And it's finally something you'll _never_ be able to guess."

Sherlock sat up straighter and locked eyes with John; eyes with a certain spark in them that John had come to know quite well. It meant there was a puzzle in front of Sherlock that he hadn't quite cracked yet, and he would die trying.

"Really?"

John just sat back and crossed his arms, confident. "You'll never know it, not until the exact moment I want you to."

"Hmm."

John could almost see the wheels turning in Sherlock's brain. His eyes darted back and forth at light speed for a good thirty seconds before stilling and falling back to John, who was still grinning.

"Hm," John looked at the ceiling as if he were pondering something, "you only have two days you know. I mean, unless you, oh I don't know, _want to be surprised_."

"Don't be stupid." He stood up and raced into the kitchen, only his voice trailing behind: "The game is on. Thank you, John! Christmas really has come early!"

He popped his head around the corner a second later. "Is it the game? Is that what you got me?"

"Nope."

Gone again. "Ha Ha!"

The next two days were hellish in a way that was both amusing for John, and unbearably annoying for him at the same time. Sherlock was relentless. He'd sent all the usual texts, but no one could tell him anything. He'd hacked John's laptop—again, nothing. He'd torn the flat apart; still nothing. He'd even stared at John for a good three hours trying to analyze his body signals or something. John was forced to try to read the paper, or watch TV with the whirlwind that was Sherlock flying around him wreaking havoc on their innocent flat.

By Christmas Eve, Sherlock was running on empty. He hadn't slept in two day (three, actually, John remembered). He was like the scientist on the verge of a huge breakthrough whom everyone else thought was mad. But at the end, he still had no idea, and John could tell it was getting to him.

The result was Sherlock's face in his face at 6 o'clock on the dot on Christmas morning saying: "It's time. Get up!"

John ran a hand over his face and tumbled out of bed. _Fine._

"Sherlock, give me five minutes to get a kettle on, it's bloody cold. You're acting like you're six."

Sherlock bounced in an armchair that he'd drug close to the tree. John joined him soon with his cup of tea. Sherlock looked around John confusedly like he suddenly couldn't see the wallpaper on the walls.

"Well where is it? Do you have it?"

"Yes, I have it. And if you don't start being a bit nicer, I won't want to give it to you."

Sherlock sat silently then, chastised, but quivering like a puppy waiting for a ball. John sighed and stood up, coming over to him. "Move over." He sat down beside Sherlock. "Ready?"

Sherlock nodded, so tensely it could have just been one of his quivering shakes.

"Right." John leaned in and pressed his lips to Sherlock's, firm and warm and patient until Sherlock got over the shock of it.

"Merry Christmas."

Sherlock stared at him. "You gave me a kiss for Christmas?"

It was a little less than happy sounding, and in turn made John a little less than happy. "Well, you could've had any number of nice things, if only you'd kept your—mind—shut."

"Well. I have something for you too." He gave John a regular looking present, which John took, weighing it in his hand.

"It's a jumper. Thanks."

Sherlock looked back in such clear shock it almost made up for things. His expression begging the question he was too proud to ask.

"I saw the receipt. It fell out of your pocket."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Well."

"I have something else for you," Sherlock said.

"You do?"

"Yes, and, like yours, you won't have guessed this one either. Or perhaps, maybe you will guess it now."

John quirked his head, "Ah, no… no, I'm not so good at things like that. Besides, I like to be surprised."

"Very well." Sherlock leaned in and kissed him then, mirroring the kiss John had given. At least until John relaxed into reaction, at which point, Sherlock took the kiss into new territory, and John let him, because he knew how much Sherlock had missed being in charge.


End file.
